Ben Stone at Oakdale

“Yes, Jerry, it’s the same fellow. He lives here in Oakdale now.”

“But, Ben, he – why, you know what he did. You know – ”

“I’m not likely to forget it, Jerry.”

“He hates you.”

“There’s not an atom of love lost between us,” was the grim retort.

“He made you go away from Hilton.”

“And he tried to drive me out of Oakdale, but he failed in that, Jerry. He came mighty near it, it’s true, and only for the good friends I made here he would have succeeded. His old father even went to Prof. Richardson, at the academy, and tried to poison his mind.”

“Oh, I’m afraid of them, Ben! I know Bern Hayden would do anything to hurt you – anything.”

“You needn’t be afraid. Roger Eliot is my friend; his father is, too, and Mr. Eliot has fully as much strength and influence in Oakdale as Lemuel Hayden.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, “and he’s lived here lots longer. Everybody knows Urian Eliot ’round these parts; an’, even if he is a rich man and rather tight and close in business dealin’s, they do say he’s honest an’ just. ’Course he’s got his enemies, same’s anybody has; but even the wust on ’em can’t point out no crooked thing he’s ever done.”

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to calm and reassure the agitated blind boy. Presently, after they had talked for a time, Mrs. Jones lighted a small hand-lamp and gave it to Ben, saying:

“I won’t keep y’u up no longer, for I know y’u must be tired an’ want to go to bed – anyhow, I’m dead sartain your brother is plumb pegged out. But to-morrer is the day of rest, an’ y’u can sleep jest as late as y’u want to.”

Good nights were said, and the brothers mounted the narrow back stairs, Ben assisting Jerry while the little dog scrambled up behind them. When at last they were in the privacy of Ben’s room, he questioned Jerry.

“I didn’t want to ask too many things before people,” he said, “because I thought perhaps there might be something you wouldn’t care to answer; but I don’t understand how it was that I found you, tired and worn out, tramping to Oakdale. How did Uncle Asher happen to let you leave his home?”

“Uncle Asher is dead,” said Jerry.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BLIND FUGITIVE

Ben was startled. “Dead,” he cried, aghast – “Uncle Asher dead?”

“Yes,” answered Jerry, sitting on the edge of the bed, “he was took off sudden, Ben. He didn’t live much more’n an hour after he was struck down. It was apoplexy or something like that. The doctor, he couldn’t do anything. Uncle, he never spoke but once, and that was just before he went. Of course I was awful scat, Ben, but I was in the room, and I heard him whispering my name. I went to the bed and felt for his hands. One of them didn’t have any strength, and it was stone cold. The other was cold, too, but I felt it grip my wrist, and then, sort of husky and choky, Uncle Asher said, ‘The will, it’s in’ – and that was all. He never finished; he couldn’t. I don’t believe it was ten minutes after that when they told me he was gone.”

Ben seemed to be stupefied by the intelligence of this tragedy. “Uncle Asher dead!” he repeated, apparently finding it difficult to comprehend the situation. “He was good to you, wasn’t he, Jerry?”

“Always. He wouldn’t talk about you, Ben; all he’d say was that nobody knowed what had become of you. But he was good to me, and he said I’d always be taken care of.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ben simply, brushing away the tears which welled into his eyes. “As long as he was good to you, I don’t mind what he thought about me, for I suppose he had reasons to believe I was bad.”

“I wanted to tell you all about it when we met back there on the road,” said Jerry; “but I thought perhaps it wasn’t best to talk too much before other people. I was afraid to talk, Ben, and I’ve got good reasons to be afraid. Listen, Ben; I ran away.”

“You – you what?” gasped the older lad in great astonishment.

“I ran away, Ben. I didn’t even wait till the funeral was over.”

“What made you do that?”

“Because – because they were going to send me off to some institution for poor and helpless children. I heard them talking about it, the doctor and the lawyer and one or two of the neighbors. They didn’t know I heard them, but I couldn’t help listening. The lawyer had come, and he said he’d drawn up Uncle Asher’s will four years ago. It was in a safety deposit vault at the bank. I heard him telling that there wasn’t no provision made for me in that will. Something was left to the housekeeper and one or two distant relatives, and all the rest went to benevolent institutions; I was left out.

“Of course I thought of you, Ben, the very first thing, and I wanted to let you know; but there wasn’t nobody who could tell me where you were. It was pretty hard to think mebbe I’d be shut up in some institution and kept there and never, never find you again. When I thought about that all alone in my room I got desperate, Ben. All that was left to me was my little dog, Pilot, that uncle had bought for me and trained to lead me round; and I was afraid they’d take Pilot away from me, too. So that night I packed up a few things, and took the violin Uncle Asher had given me, and took Pilot, and we stole out of the house and ran away.

“I told Pilot just what I was going to do, and, honest and true, I believe he understood what I said. I told him Uncle Asher was gone, and that if we didn’t run away mebbe folks would separate us and we couldn’t be together no more. He’d never been outside that town before, Ben, but when we took to the road in the night he just kept going straight ahead without once trying to turn back. Needn’t nobody ever tell me some dogs don’t understand as much as human folks.

“I’d took along some bread and doughnuts out of the pantry, and, when it come morning and I could feel the sun shining, we had breakfast side of a little brook, after which we crept into the bushes and hid all day long. I heard people going by on the road, but I told Pilot to keep still, and he minded. There was enough food left for supper, and the next night we tramped it again all night long, stopping only two or three times to rest. In the morning I had breakfast off some apples I found in an orchard. Pilot he left me, and I thought mebbe he’d deserted for good, and I guess I cried, Ben; but he hadn’t gone far, and after a while he come back with an old bone he’d found, and that served him for breakfast. We got into a shed and slept there till it was dark and we could travel some more.”

“Oh, Jerry,” cried Ben sympathetically – “oh, Jerry, it must have been terrible!” He seated himself beside the blind lad, about whose shoulders his arm was tenderly flung. The little dog, half dozing on the floor, rolled a contented, satisfied eye toward them and closed it again.

“I can’t tell you all we did and all we went through, Ben,” the blind lad continued; “but we managed to get along somehow, though I was always scat for fear they’d catch me and take me back. I played on the violin and sometimes I sang, and Jerry he would sit up on his haunches and beg, and people gave us some money. That’s how we were able to live and buy food.”

“It was a marvel you were not caught, Jerry. Perhaps no one searched for you.”

“Oh, yes, they did,” declared the blind boy quickly – “yes, they did, Ben. It was three nights ago I was stopping at a house in a little village where some kind folks agreed to put me up when I heard somebody knocking at the door. It gave me a start, and I listened. I heard a man talking to the man of the house, and he was asking about me. He described me – a little blind boy with a fiddle and a dog. I hadn’t undressed for bed, and that was lucky. I called Pilot softly, and somehow we got down the back stairs and out of the house before they came up to that room to look for me. Again we tramped it all night long, though it was awful cold and I shivered and almost froze every time we stopped to rest. Everywhere I went I asked for you, and I kept praying to find you, Ben, though it didn’t seem that there was any chance. I guess, though, that prayer was heard.”

“It was, Jerry; it must have been. Something led you to me, and something guarded you from capture until you had found me.”

“But what if they find me now, Ben – what can we do?”

The older lad meditated a moment. “I can take care of you, Jerry,” he said. “I’m strong, and I can work. I’ll have to give up school for a time and find work again.”

“But you know, Ben – you know they think you’re bad. They might separate us on that account. I’m sure they would.”

“And only for Bern Hayden,” exclaimed Ben bitterly, “I’d never have such a reputation! We’ll do the best we can, Jerry; don’t you worry. Fortune has seemed to favor me here in Oakdale, and I feel sure everything is bound to come out all right in the end. We won’t be separated, little brother; we’ll stick together.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

CLOUDS GATHER AGAIN

Again Ben Stone found himself confronted by a problem that demanded immediate solution. It disturbed his pillow long after Jerry, wearied to the extreme, was sleeping soundly; and when at last he slept it gave him troubled dreams.

He was first to waken in the morning, and, when he would have slept still longer, the great question swooped upon him and tore away the last shred of slumber. The little dog welcomed him with wagging tail as he crept softly out of bed that he might not disturb his sleeping brother. He was nearly dressed when Jerry awoke with a startled cry, sitting up on the bed and thrusting out his thin arms, his hands spread open as if to hold away some fearsome thing. In a twinkling Ben was at the bed, speaking reassuringly to Jerry.

“Oh – oh, is it you, brother?” gasped the blind boy, as he felt himself gathered into the embrace of Ben’s strong arms. “I thought they had caught me. I thought they were going to take me back.”

“You were only dreaming, Jerry. You’re quite safe with me.” Tenderly he caressed the little lad, who, trembling, clung to him.

“You won’t let them take me away, will you, Ben?”

“No, Jerry, they shall not take you away.”

Mrs. Jones would have had them down to breakfast, but when she came to call them they had eaten from Ben’s small store of apples and sandwiches, and they seemed quite happy and contented, so that she had no glimpse of the threatening shadow which hovered near.

During the greater part of that Sunday the brothers remained in the little room, having many things to talk about and being unwilling to advertise for the general public the fact that Jerry was in Oakdale. Late in the afternoon, however, they walked out together, turning westward to avoid the main part of the village and passing the academy. Before reaching Turkey Hill they left the road and set off across the fields toward a grove of pines upon the shore of Lake Woodrim. Pilot, unleashed, frisked before them. On the shore of Bear Cove they found a seat beneath one of those pines where the ground was carpeted with soft brown needles.

They were sitting there, talking, when a small, flat-bottomed punt containing a single occupant rounded Pine Point in full view and was paddled toward them. The person in the boat was Spotty Davis, who, despite the fact that it was Sunday, had been fishing. He discovered them almost immediately, and, recognizing Ben, called loudly: